CHAPTER XIX

Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

[Editor's Note:--The chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed

from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the

complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter XV and volume 3

starts with chapter XXX.]

SYLVIA'S LOVERS.

BY

ELIZABETH GASKELL

Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless!

What hope of answer, or redress?

Behind the veil! Behind the veil!--Tennyson

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

M.DCCC.LXIII.

CONTENTS

XV A DIFFICULT QUESTION

XVI THE ENGAGEMENT

XVII REJECTED WARNINGS

XVIII EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT

XIX AN IMPORTANT MISSION

XX LOVED AND LOST

XXI A REJECTED SUITOR

XXII DEEPENING SHADOWS

XXIII RETALIATION

XXIV BRIEF REJOICING

XXV COMING TROUBLES

XXVI A DREARY VIGIL

XXVII GLOOMY DAYS

XXVIII THE ORDEAL

XXIX WEDDING RAIMENT

CHAPTER XV

A DIFFICULT QUESTION

Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in

his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of

feeling from despondency to hope. The night before it seemed as if

all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes;

he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours

before, had been almost impious, so great was the change in his

circumstances for the better. Now all seemed promising for the

fulfilment of what he most desired. He was almost convinced that he

was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more than a

sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia; at any

rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to return

for another year (for Greenland ships left for the northern seas as

soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then

he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his

fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love.

So this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had

been the night before; they were a vehement expression of gratitude

to God for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant

him the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. He was like

too many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands of

God, and only ask for grace to do His will in whatever circumstances

might arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing

which, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to

be equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it the

material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are

answers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense, but they need

prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation

to evil which such events invariably bring with them.

Philip little knew how Sylvia's time had been passed that day. If he

had, he would have laid down this night with even a heavier heart

than he had done on the last.

Charley Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the

path to Haytersbank Farm diverged. Then he stopped his merry talk,

and announced his intention of going to see farmer Robson. Bessy

Corney looked disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister Molly

Brunton laughed, and said,--

'Tell truth, lad! Dannel Robson 'd niver have a call fra' thee if he

hadn't a pretty daughter.'

'Indeed, but he would,' replied Charley, rather annoyed; 'when I've

said a thing, I do it. I promised last night to go see him; besides,

I like the old man.'

'Well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?'

'Toward eight o'clock--may-be sooner.'

'Why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' staying

theere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and Mrs. Robson

ailing beside? Mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she,

Bess?'

'I dunno. Charley mun do as he likes; I daresay no one'll miss him

if he does bide away till eight.'

'Well, well! I can't tell what I shall do; but yo'd best not stop

lingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen frost by

t' look o' the stars.'

Haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed;

there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they care to draw the

inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. The house door was

fastened; but the shippen door a little on in the same long low

block of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong upon

the snowy ground outside. As Kinraid drew near he heard talking

there, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through the

window into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing Mrs. Robson asleep

by the fireside in her easy-chair, he went on.

There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into

the pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling a

capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. Sylvia stood

near the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed,

pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality

laughing at Kester's futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to

do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail,

or the occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the warm and

odorous breath of the cattle--breath that hung about the place in

faint misty clouds. There was only a dim light; such as it was, it

was not dearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the

old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped.

As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, 'Quiet wi' thee,

wench! Theere now, she's a beauty, if she'll stand still. There's

niver sich a cow i' t' Riding; if she'll only behave hersel'. She's

a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere's a pretty!'

'Why, Kester,' laughed Sylvia, 'thou'rt asking her for her milk wi'

as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!'

'Hey, lass!' said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting

one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation which

puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and

folds. 'An' how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that thee

talks so knowin' about it? That's tellin'. Some un's been tryin' it

on thee.'

'There's niver a one been so impudent,' said Sylvia, reddening and

tossing her head a little; 'I'd like to see 'em try me!'

'Well, well!' said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning,

'thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good lass, may-be thy

turn 'll come and they 'll try it.'

'I wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, Kester,

i'stead of i' that silly way,' replied Sylvia.

'Then a mun talk no more 'bout women, for they're past knowin', an'

druv e'en King Solomon silly.'

At this moment Charley stepped in. Sylvia gave a little start and

dropped her ball of worsted. Kester made as though absorbed in his

task of cajoling Black Nell; but his eyes and ears were both

vigilant.

'I was going into the house, but I saw yo'r mother asleep, and I

didn't like to waken her, so I just came on here. Is yo'r father to

the fore?'

'No,' said Sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he

could have heard the way in which she and Kester had been talking,

and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against

herself. 'Father is gone to Winthrop about some pigs as he's heerd

on. He'll not be back till seven o'clock or so.'

It was but half-past five, and Sylvia in the irritation of the

moment believed that she wished Kinraid would go. But she would have

been extremely disappointed if he had. Kinraid himself seemed to

have no thought of the kind. He saw with his quick eyes, not

unaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered

Sylvia, and anxious to make her quite at her ease with him, and not

unwilling to conciliate Kester, he addressed his next speech to him,

with the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit that

a young man of a different class sometimes puts on when talking to

the chaperone of a pretty girl in a ball-room.

'That's a handsome beast yo've just been milking, master.'

'Ay; but handsome is as handsome does. It were only yesterday as she

aimed her leg right at t' pail wi' t' afterings in. She knowed it

were afterings as well as any Christian, and t' more t' mischief t'

better she likes it; an' if a hadn't been too quick for her, it

would have a' gone swash down i' t' litter. This'n 's a far better

cow i' t' long run, she's just a steady goer,' as the milky

down-pour came musical and even from the stall next to Black Nell's.

Sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that it

was a great pity she had not put on a better gown, or even a cap

with brighter ribbon, and quite unconscious how very pretty she

looked standing against the faint light, her head a little bent

down; her hair catching bright golden touches, as it fell from under

her little linen cap; her pink bed-gown, confined by her

apron-string, giving a sort of easy grace to her figure; her dark

full linsey petticoat short above her trim ancles, looking far more

suitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown of

the night before would have done. Kinraid was wanting to talk to

her, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. In the

meantime Kester went on with the subject last spoken about.

'Black Nell's at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha' left off

her tricks and turned sober-like. But bless yo', there's some cows

as 'll be skittish till they're fat for t' butcher. Not but what a

like milking her better nor a steady goer; a man has allays summat

to be watchin' for; and a'm kind o' set up when a've mastered her at

last. T' young missus theere, she's mighty fond o' comin' t' see

Black Nell at her tantrums. She'd niver come near me if a' cows were

like this'n.'

'Do you often come and see the cows milked?' asked Kinraid,

'Many a time,' said Sylvia, smiling a little. 'Why, when we're

throng, I help Kester; but now we've only Black Nell and Daisy

giving milk. Kester knows as I can milk Black Nell quite easy,' she

continued, half vexed that Kester had not named this accomplishment.

'Ay! when she's in a good frame o' mind, as she is sometimes. But t'

difficulty is to milk her at all times.'

'I wish I'd come a bit sooner. I should like t' have seen you milk

Black Nell,' addressing Sylvia.

'Yo'd better come to-morrow e'en, and see what a hand she'll mak' on

her,' said Kester.

'To-morrow night I shall be far on my road back to Shields.'

'To-morrow!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, and then

dropping her eyes, as she found he had been watching for the effect

of his intelligence on her.

'I mun be back at t' whaler, where I'm engaged,' continued he.

'She's fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as I've been one as

wanted new ways, I mun be on the spot for t' look after her. Maybe I

shall take a run down here afore sailing in March. I'm sure I shall

try.'

There was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words.

The tone in which they were spoken gave them a tender intensity not

lost upon either of the hearers. Kester cocked his eye once more,

but with as little obtrusiveness as he could, and pondered the

sailor's looks and ways. He remembered his coming about the place

the winter before, and how the old master had then appeared to have

taken to him; but at that time Sylvia had seemed to Kester too

little removed from a child to have either art or part in Kinraid's

visits; now, however, the case was different. Kester in his

sphere--among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was--had

heard with much pride of Sylvia's bearing away the bell at church

and at market, wherever girls of her age were congregated. He was a

north countryman, so he gave out no further sign of his feelings

than his mistress and Sylvia's mother had done on a like occasion.

'T' lass is weel enough,' said he; but he grinned to himself, and

looked about, and listened to the hearsay of every lad, wondering

who was handsome, and brave, and good enough to be Sylvia's mate.

Now, of late, it had seemed to the canny farm-servant pretty clear

that Philip Hepburn was 'after her'; and to Philip, Kester had an

instinctive objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as has

existed in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the

country, between agriculture and trade. So, while Kinraid and Sylvia

kept up their half-tender, half-jesting conversation, Kester was

making up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of the

young man then present as a husband for his darling, as much from

his being other than Philip in every respect, as from the individual

good qualities he possessed. Kester's first opportunity of favouring

Kinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over his

milking; so never were cows that required such 'stripping,' or were

expected to yield such 'afterings', as Black Nell and Daisy that

night. But all things must come to an end; and at length Kester got

up from his three-legged stool, on seeing what the others did

not--that the dip-candle in the lantern was coming to an end--and

that in two or three minutes more the shippen would be in darkness,

and so his pails of milk be endangered. In an instant Sylvia had

started out of her delicious dreamland, her drooping eyes were

raised, and recovered their power of observation; her ruddy arms

were freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them, as a

protection from the gathering cold, and she had seized and adjusted

the wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to bear the brimming

milk-pails to the dairy.

'Look yo' at her!' exclaimed Kester to Charley, as he adjusted the

fragrant pails on the yoke. 'She thinks she's missus a ready, and

she's allays for carrying in t' milk since t' rhumatiz cotched my

shouther i' t' back end; and when she says "Yea," it's as much as my

heed's worth to say "Nay."'

And along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stones

of the rambling farmyard, behind the buildings, did Sylvia trip,

safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating of

white snow, and in many places was so slippery as to oblige Kinraid

to linger near Kester, the lantern-bearer. Kester did not lose his

opportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic

cough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words.

'She's a good wench--a good wench as iver was--an come on a good

stock, an' that's summat, whether in a cow or a woman. A've known

her from a baby; she's a reet down good un.'

By this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as Sylvia

had unladen herself, and was striking a light with flint and tinder.

The house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air,

although the kitchen into which they entered contained only a raked

and slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the

immense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. To

this pan Kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it round

with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashioned

machinery. Kinraid stood between Kester and the door into the dairy,

through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk. He half wished to

conciliate Kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by a

force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went.

Kester read his mind.

'Let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan such

dainty carryin' as milk. A may set it down an' niver spill a drop;

she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; better

help her t' teem t' milk.'

So Kinraid followed the light--his light--into the icy chill of the

dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with

the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that Sylvia was emptying out into the

brown pans. In his haste to help her, Charley took up one of the

pails.

'Eh? that'n 's to be strained. Yo' have a' the cow's hair in.

Mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.'

So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she--but not

before he--was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his

happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over

the bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it.

'There!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'now

yo'll know how to do it next time.'

'I wish next time was to come now,' said Kinraid; but she had

returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him. He followed

her to her side of the dairy. 'I've but a short memory, can yo' not

show me again how t' hold t' strainer?'

'No,' said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in

spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 'But there's

no need to tell me yo've getten a short memory.'

'Why? what have I done? how dun you know it?'

'Last night,' she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her

head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such

like.

'Well!' said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it,

if his conjecture were right. 'Last night--what?'

'Oh, yo' know!' said she, as if impatient at being both literally

and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a corner.

'No; tell me,' persisted he.

'Well,' said she, 'if yo' will have it, I think yo' showed yo'd but

a short memory when yo' didn't know me again, and yo' were five

times at this house last winter, and that's not so long sin'. But I

suppose yo' see a vast o' things on yo'r voyages by land or by sea,

and then it's but natural yo' should forget.' She wished she could

go on talking, but could not think of anything more to say just

then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering

interpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing so

exactly the number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed upon

her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther

afield--to make it a little less personal. This was not his wish,

however. In a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own

despite, he said,--

'Do yo' think that can ever happen again, Sylvia?'

She was quite silent; almost trembling. He repeated the question as

if to force her to answer. Driven to bay, she equivocated.

'What happen again? Let me go, I dunno what yo're talking about, and

I'm a'most numbed wi' cold.'

For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window,

and the ice was already forming on the milk. Kinraid would have

found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young

women, warm; but he paused before he dared put his arm round Sylvia;

she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her

very innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead

to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. So he

contented himself with saying,--

'I'll let yo' go into t' warm kitchen if yo'll tell me if yo' think

I can ever forget yo' again.'

She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. He

enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showed

she felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked steadily into his;

nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her

afraid. They were like two children defying each other; each

determined to conquer. At last she unclosed her lips, and nodding

her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in

her check apron,--

'Yo'll have to go home sometime.'

'Not for a couple of hours yet,' said he; 'and yo'll be frozen

first; so yo'd better say if I can ever forget yo' again, without

more ado.'

Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence,--perhaps the tones

were less modulated than they had been before, but anyhow Bell

Robson's voice was heard calling Sylvia through the second door,

which opened from the dairy to the house-place, in which her mother

had been till this moment asleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience to

the call; glad to leave him, as at the moment Kinraid resentfully

imagined. Through the open door he heard the conversation between

mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficult

did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had just

been forming with Sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes.

'Sylvia!' said her mother, 'who's yonder?' Bell was sitting up in

the attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity of

listening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going to

rise. 'There's a fremd man i' t' house. I heerd his voice!'

'It's only--it's just Charley Kinraid; he was a-talking to me i' t'

dairy.'

'I' t' dairy, lass! and how com'd he i' t' dairy?'

'He com'd to see feyther. Feyther asked him last night,' said

Sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word that was said,

and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with her

mother.

'Thy feyther's out; how com'd he i' t' dairy?' persevered Bell.

'He com'd past this window, and saw yo' asleep, and didn't like for

t' waken yo'; so he com'd on to t' shippen, and when I carried t'

milk in---'

But now Kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of his situation a

little, yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his open

face, and in his exculpatory manner, that Sylvia lost his first

words in a strange kind of pride of possession in him, about which

she did not reason nor care to define the grounds. But her mother

rose from her chair somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to

sit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that

standing attitude long.

'I'm afeared, sir, Sylvie hasn't told yo' that my master's out, and

not like to be in till late. He'll be main and sorry to have missed

yo'.'

There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only comfort was

that on Sylvia's rosy face he could read unmistakable signs of

regret and dismay. His sailor's life, in bringing him suddenly face

to face with unexpected events, had given him something of that

self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; and

with an apparent calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia, who

construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or

stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding her

hand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary,--

'I'm coming back ere I sail; and then, may-be, you'll answer yon

question.'

He spoke low, and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair,

else Sylvia would have had to repeat the previous words. As it was,

with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her, she could get her

wheel, and sit down to her spinning by the fire; waiting for her

mother to speak first, Sylvia dreamt her dreams.

Bell Robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it

lay on the surface. She was not aware how deep down certain feelings

had penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side of

the fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure.

Bell looked upon Sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden

things by threats of danger. But the forbidden thing was already

tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to

make it more precious-sweet.

Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. Her milk-white

linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which the

usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the

same cause, rendered more prominent and stern. She had a clean buff

kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday

woollen gown of dark blue,--if she had been in working-trim she

would have worn a bedgown like Sylvia's. Her sleeves were pinned

back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay

crossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron. Her knitting was by

her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed

calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinking

in her fingers. But she had something quite beyond common to think

about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not

equal to knitting.

'Sylvie,' she began at length, 'did I e'er tell thee on Nancy

Hartley as I knew when I were a child? I'm thinking a deal on her

to-night; may-be it's because I've been dreaming on yon old times.

She was a bonny lass as ever were seen, I've heerd folk say; but

that were afore I knew her. When I knew her she were crazy, poor

wench; wi' her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes,

as were a'most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a

word she spoke but "He once was here." Just that o'er and o'er

again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, "He once was

here," were all her speech. She had been farm-servant to my mother's

brother--James Hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a poor,

friendless wench, a parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till

a lad, as nobody knowed, come o'er the hills one sheep-shearing fra'

Whitehaven; he had summat to do wi' th' sea, though not rightly to

be called a sailor: and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley, just to

beguile the time like; and he went away and ne'er sent a thought

after her more. It's the way as lads have; and there's no holding

'em when they're fellows as nobody knows--neither where they come

fro', nor what they've been doing a' their lives, till they come

athwart some poor wench like Nancy Hartley. She were but a softy

after all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. I've

heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi' Nancy as

soon as th' milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a clean

lass about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse,

and she would sit and do nothing but play wi' her fingers fro' morn

till night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, "He

once was here;" and if they bid her go about her work, it were a'

the same. And when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would

stand up and put her hair from her eyes, and look about her like a

crazy thing searching for her wits, and ne'er finding them, for all

she could think on was just, "He once was here." It were a caution

to me again thinking a man t' mean what he says when he's a-talking

to a young woman.'

'But what became on poor Nancy?' asked Sylvia.

'What should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel' up to

thinking on a man who cares nought for her?' replied her mother, a

little severely. 'She were crazed, and my aunt couldn't keep her

on, could she? She did keep her a long weary time, thinking as she

would, may-be, come to hersel', and, anyhow, she were a motherless

wench. But at length she had for t' go where she came fro'--back to

Keswick workhouse: and when last I heerd on her she were chained to

th' great kitchen dresser i' t' workhouse; they'd beaten her till

she were taught to be silent and quiet i' th' daytime, but at night,

when she were left alone, she would take up th' oud cry, till it

wrung their heart, so they'd many a time to come down and beat her

again to get any peace. It were a caution to me, as I said afore, to

keep fro' thinking on men as thought nought on me.'

'Poor crazy Nancy!' sighed Sylvia. The mother wondered if she had

taken the 'caution' to herself, or was only full of pity for the mad

girl, dead long before.

CHAPTER XVI

THE ENGAGEMENT

'As the day lengthens so the cold strengthens.' It was so that year;

the hard frost which began on new year's eve lasted on and on into

late February, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers,

as it kept back the too early growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave

them the opportunity of leading manure. But it did not suit invalids

as well, and Bell Robson, though not getting worse, did not make any

progress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept very busy,

notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman in

the neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or churning days. Her

life was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while her

hands mechanically found and did their accustomed labour, the

thoughts that rose in her head always centred on Charley Kinraid,

his ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what she

would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time,

such a feeling was likely to endure. Her mother's story of crazy

Nancy had taken hold of her; but not as a 'caution,' rather as a

parallel case to her own. Like Nancy, and borrowing the poor girl's

own words, she would say softly to herself, 'He once was here'; but

all along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her,

though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsaken

love.

Philip knew little of all this. He was very busy with facts and

figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and only

now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to

Haytersbank in an evening, to inquire after his aunt's health, and

to see Sylvia; for the two Fosters were punctiliously anxious to

make their shopmen test all their statements; insisting on an

examination of the stock, as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangers

to the shop; having the Monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise the

fixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for the

last twenty years with their successors, an employment which took up

evening after evening; and not unfrequently taking one of the young

men on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in a

gig. By degrees both Hepburn and Coulson were introduced to distant

manufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would have been willing to

take the Fosters' word for every statement the brothers had made on

new year's day; but this, it was evident, would not have satisfied

their masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whatever

advantage there was should always fall on the side of the younger

men.

When Philip saw Sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps more

silent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend so

briskly to what was passing around her. She was rather thinner and

paler; but whatever change there was in her was always an

improvement in Philip's eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to

him. He thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety about

her mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause was

enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference which

had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied,

was quite unaware. She liked him better, too, than she had done a

year or two before, because he did not show her any of the eager

attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully

understood.

Things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milder

weather succeeded. This was the time so long looked forward to by

the invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor's

recommendation of change of air. Her husband was to take her to

spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farm

they had occupied, forty miles or so inland, before they came to

Haytersbank. The widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, to

keep Sylvia company, during her mother's absence. Daniel, indeed,

was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination; but

there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year,

that Sylvia would have been alone all day had it not been for the

arrangement just mentioned.

There was active stirring in Monkshaven harbour as well as on shore.

The whalers were finishing their fittings-out for the Greenland

seas. It was a 'close' season, that is to say, there would be

difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the ships

and the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before June,

or the year's expedition would be of little avail. Every

blacksmith's shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers,

beating out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the

great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and important

sailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand in

which they were held at this season of the year. It was war time,

too. Many captains unable to procure men in Monkshaven would have to

complete their crews in the Shetlands. The shops in the town were

equally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters,

warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. These were the larger

wholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out their

small hoards to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes for

some beloved one. It was the time of the great half-yearly traffic

of the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalers

returned in the autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full of

delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends.

There was much to be done in Fosters' shop, and later hours were

kept than usual. Some perplexity or other was occupying John and

Jeremiah Foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual,

being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken

to no one. But it thus happened that they did not give the prompt

assistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and Coulson

had been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him and

Philip as future partners. One evening after the shop was closed,

while they were examining the goods, and comparing the sales with

the entries in the day-book, Coulson suddenly inquired--

'By the way, Hester, does thee know where the parcel of best

bandanas is gone? There was four left, as I'm pretty sure, when I

set off to Sandsend; and to-day Mark Alderson came in, and would

fain have had one, and I could find none nowhere.'

'I sold t' last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who fought

the press-gang same time as poor Darley were killed. He took it, and

three yards of yon pink ribbon wi' t' black and yellow crosses on

it, as Philip could never abide. Philip has got 'em i' t' book, if

he'll only look.'

'Is he here again?' said Philip; 'I didn't see him. What brings him

here, where he's noan wanted?'

'T' shop were throng wi' folk,' said Hester, 'and he knew his own

mind about the handkercher, and didn't tarry long. Just as he was

leaving, his eye caught on t' ribbon, and he came back for it. It

were when yo' were serving Mary Darby and there was a vast o' folk

about yo'.'

'I wish I'd seen him,' said Coulson. 'I'd ha' gi'en him a word and a

look he'd not ha' forgotten in a hurry.'

'Why, what's up?' said Philip, surprised at William's unusual

manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflection

of his own feelings about Kinraid. Coulson's face was pale with

anger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would

reply or not.

'Up!' said he at length. 'It's just this: he came after my sister

for better nor two year; and a better lass--no, nor a prettier i' my

eyes--niver broke bread. And then my master saw another girl, that

he liked better'--William almost choked in his endeavour to keep

down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, 'and that

he played t' same game wi', as I've heerd tell.'

'And how did thy sister take it?' asked Philip, eagerly.

'She died in a six-month,' said William; '_she_ forgived him, but

it's beyond me. I thought it were him when I heerd of t' work about

Darley; Kinraid--and coming fra' Newcassel, where Annie lived

'prentice--and I made inquiry, and it were t' same man. But I'll

say no more about him, for it stirs t' old Adam more nor I like, or

is fitting.'

Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions although there

were many things that he fain would have known. Both Coulson and he

went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work.

Independent of any personal interest which either or both of them

had or might have in Kinraid's being a light o' love, this fault of

his was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had no

sympathy. Their hearts were true and constant, whatever else might

be their failings; and it is no new thing to 'damn the faults we

have no mind to.' Philip wished that it was not so late, or that

very evening he would have gone to keep guard over Sylvia in her

mother's absence--nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give her

a warning of some kind. But, if he had done so, it would have been

locking the stable-door after the steed was stolen. Kinraid had

turned his steps towards Haytersbank Farm as soon as ever he had

completed his purchases. He had only come that afternoon to

Monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing Sylvia once more

before he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the

_Urania_, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from North Shields on

Thursday morning, and this was Monday.

Sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, in

order to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for her

work. A basket of her father's unmended stockings was on the little

round table beside her, and one was on her left hand, which she

supposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made long

pauses, and looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motion

of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. It was

'redd up' for the afternoon; covered with a black mass of coal, over

which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. In the

back-kitchen Dolly Reid, Sylvia's assistant during her mother's

absence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting her condition as a

widow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, and milking-pails. Perhaps

these bustling sounds prevented Sylvia from hearing approaching

footsteps coming down the brow with swift advance; at any rate, she

started and suddenly stood up as some one entered the open door. It

was strange she should be so much startled, for the person who

entered had been in her thoughts all during those long pauses.

Charley Kinraid and the story of crazy Nancy had been the subjects

for her dreams for many a day, and many a night. Now he stood there,

bright and handsome as ever, with just that much timidity in his

face, that anxiety as to his welcome, which gave his accost an added

charm, could she but have perceived it. But she was so afraid of

herself, so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she had

been thinking of him in his absence, that her reception seemed cold

and still. She did not come forward to meet him; she went crimson to

the very roots of her hair; but that, in the waning light, he could

not see; and she shook so that she felt as if she could hardly

stand; but the tremor was not visible to him. She wondered if he

remembered the kiss that had passed between them on new year's

eve--the words that had been spoken in the dairy on new year's day;

the tones, the looks, that had accompanied those words. But all she

said was--

'I didn't think to see yo'. I thought yo'd ha' sailed.'

'I told yo' I should come back, didn't I?' said he, still standing,

with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit down; and she,

in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the invitation, but, instead,

pretending to be attentively mending the stocking she held. Neither

could keep quiet and silent long. She felt his eyes were upon her,

watching every motion, and grew more and more confused in her

expression and behaviour. He was a little taken aback by the nature

of his reception, and was not sure at first whether to take the

great change in her manner, from what it had been when last he saw

her, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. By-and-by, luckily for

him, in some turn of her arm to reach the scissors on the table, she

caught the edge of her work-basket, and down it fell. She stooped to

pick up the scattered stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he;

and when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her face

was turned away, half ready to cry.

'What ails yo' at me?' said he, beseechingly. 'Yo' might ha'

forgotten me; and yet I thought we made a bargain against forgetting

each other.' No answer. He went on: 'Yo've never been out o' my

thoughts, Sylvia Robson; and I'm come back to Monkshaven for nought

but to see you once and again afore I go away to the northern seas.

It's not two hour sin' I landed at Monkshaven, and I've been near

neither kith nor kin as yet; and now I'm here you won't speak to

me.'

'I don't know what to say,' said she, in a low, almost inaudible

tone. Then hardening herself, and resolving to speak as if she did

not understand his only half-expressed meaning, she lifted up her

head, and all but looking at him--while she wrenched her hand out of

his--she said: 'Mother's gone to Middleham for a visit, and

feyther's out i' t' plough-field wi' Kester; but he'll be in afore

long.'

Charley did not speak for a minute or so. Then he said--

'Yo're not so dull as to think I'm come all this way for t' see

either your father or your mother. I've a great respect for 'em

both; but I'd hardly ha' come all this way for to see 'em, and me

bound to be back i' Shields, if I walk every step of the way, by

Wednesday night. It's that yo' won't understand my meaning, Sylvia;

it's not that yo' don't, or that yo' can't.' He made no effort to

repossess himself of her hand. She was quite silent, but in spite of

herself she drew long hard breaths. 'I may go back to where I came

from,' he went on. 'I thought to go to sea wi' a blessed hope to

cheer me up, and a knowledge o' some one as loved me as I'd left

behind; some one as loved me half as much as I did her; for th'

measure o' my love toward her is so great and mighty, I'd be content

wi' half as much from her, till I'd taught her to love me more. But

if she's a cold heart and cannot care for a honest sailor, why,

then, I'd best go back at once.'

He made for the door. He must have been pretty sure from some sign

or other, or he would never have left it to her womanly pride to

give way, and for her to make the next advance. He had not taken two

steps when she turned quickly towards him, and said something--the

echo of which, rather than the words themselves, reached him.

'I didn't know yo' cared for me; yo' niver said so.' In an instant

he was back at her side, his arm round her in spite of her short

struggle, and his eager passionate voice saying, 'Yo' never knowed I

loved you, Sylvia? say it again, and look i' my face while yo' say

it, if yo' can. Why, last winter I thought yo'd be such a woman when

yo'd come to be one as my een had never looked upon, and this year,

ever sin' I saw yo' i' the kitchen corner sitting crouching behind

my uncle, I as good as swore I'd have yo' for wife, or never wed at

all. And it was not long ere yo' knowed it, for all yo' were so coy,

and now yo' have the face--no, yo' have not the face--come, my

darling, what is it?' for she was crying; and on his turning her wet

blushing face towards him the better to look at it, she suddenly hid

it in his breast. He lulled and soothed her in his arms, as if she

had been a weeping child and he her mother; and then they sat down

on the settle together, and when she was more composed they began to

talk. He asked her about her mother; not sorry in his heart at Bell

Robson's absence. He had intended if necessary to acknowledge his

wishes and desires with regard to Sylvia to her parents; but for

various reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given him

the chance of seeing her alone, and obtaining her promise to marry

him without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother at

present. 'I ha' spent my money pretty free,' he said, 'and I've

ne'er a penny to the fore, and yo'r parents may look for something

better for yo', my pretty: but when I come back fro' this voyage I

shall stand a chance of having a share i' th' _Urania_, and may-be I

shall be mate as well as specksioneer; and I can get a matter of

from seventy to ninety pound a voyage, let alone th' half-guineas

for every whale I strike, and six shilling a gallon on th' oil; and

if I keep steady wi' Forbes and Company, they'll make me master i'

time, for I've had good schooling, and can work a ship as well as

any man; an' I leave yo' wi' yo'r parents, or take a cottage for yo'

nigh at hand; but I would like to have something to the fore, and

that I shall have, please God, when we come back i' th' autumn. I

shall go to sea happy, now, thinking I've yo'r word. Yo're not one

to go back from it, I'm sure, else it's a long time to leave such a

pretty girl as yo', and ne'er a chance of a letter reaching yo' just

to tell yo' once again how I love yo', and to bid yo' not forget

yo'r true love.'

'There'll be no need o' that,' murmured Sylvia.

She was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to his

details of his worldly prospects, but at the sound of his tender

words of love her eager heart was ready to listen.

'I don't know,' said he, wanting to draw her out into more

confession of her feelings. 'There's many a one ready to come after

yo'; and yo'r mother is not o'er captivated wi' me; and there's yon

tall fellow of a cousin as looks black at me, for if I'm not

mista'en he's a notion of being sweet on yo' hisself.'

'Not he,' said Sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 'He's so full

o' business and t' shop, and o' makin' money, and gettin' wealth.'

'Ay, ay; but perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask my

Sylvia to be his wife, and what will she say then?'

'He'll niver come asking such a foolish question,' said she, a

little impatiently; 'he knows what answer he'd get if he did.'

Kinraid said, almost as if to himself, 'Yo'r mother favours him

though.' But she, weary of a subject she cared nothing about, and

eager to identify herself with all his interests, asked him about

his plans almost at the same time that he said these last words; and

they went on as lovers do, intermixing a great many tender

expressions with a very little conversation relating to facts.

Dolly Reid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by them. But

Sylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice, as he and Kester

returned homewards from their day's work in the plough-field; and

she started away, and fled upstairs in shy affright, leaving Charley

to explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father.

He came in, not seeing that any one was there at first; for they had

never thought of lighting a candle. Kinraid stepped forward into the

firelight; his purpose of concealing what he had said to Sylvia

quite melted away by the cordial welcome her father gave him the

instant that he recognized him.

'Bless thee, lad! who'd ha' thought o' seein' thee? Why, if iver a

thought on thee at all, it were half way to Davis' Straits. To be

sure, t' winter's been a dree season, and thou'rt, may-be, i' t'

reet on 't to mak' a late start. Latest start as iver I made was

ninth o' March, an' we struck thirteen whales that year.'

'I have something to say to you,' said Charley, in a hesitating

voice, so different to his usual hearty way, that Daniel gave him a

keen look of attention before he began to speak. And, perhaps, the

elder man was not unprepared for the communication that followed. At

any rate, it was not unwelcome. He liked Kinraid, and had strong

sympathy not merely with what he knew of the young sailor's

character, but with the life he led, and the business he followed.

Robson listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, till

Charley had told him everything he had to say; and then he turned

and struck his broad horny palm into Kinraid's as if concluding a

bargain, while he expressed in words his hearty consent to their

engagement. He wound up with a chuckle, as the thought struck him

that this great piece of business, of disposing of their only child,

had been concluded while his wife was away.

'A'm noan so sure as t' missus 'll like it,' said he; 'tho'

whativer she'll ha' to say again it, mischief only knows. But she's

noan keen on matterimony; though a have made her as good a man as

there is in a' t' Ridings. Anyhow, a'm master, and that she knows.

But may-be, for t' sake o' peace an' quietness--tho' she's niver a

scolding tongue, that a will say for her--we'n best keep this matter

to ourselves till thou comes int' port again. T' lass upstairs 'll

like nought better than t' curl hersel' round a secret, and purr

o'er it, just as t' oud cat does o'er her blind kitten. But thou'll

be wanting to see t' lass, a'll be bound. An oud man like me isn't

as good company as a pretty lass.' Laughing a low rich laugh over

his own wit, Daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, and called,

'Sylvie, Sylvie! come down, lass! a's reet; come down!'

For a time there was no answer. Then a door was unbolted, and Sylvia

said,

'I can't come down again. I'm noan comin' down again to-night.'

Daniel laughed the more at this, especially when he caught Charley's

look of disappointment.

'Hearken how she's bolted her door. She'll noane come near us this

night. Eh! but she's a stiff little 'un; she's been our only one, and

we'n mostly let her have her own way. But we'll have a pipe and a

glass; and that, to my thinking, is as good company as iver a woman

in Yorkshire.'

CHAPTER XVII

REJECTED WARNINGS

The post arrived at Monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes,

indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, which was brought

thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of a

day to drive from York; dropping private bags here and there on the

moors, at some squire's lodge or roadside inn. Of the number of

letters that arrived in Monkshaven, the Fosters, shopkeepers and

bankers, had the largest share.

The morning succeeding the day on which Sylvia had engaged herself

to Kinraid, the Fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain their

letters. Several times Jeremiah came out of the parlour in which his

brother John was sitting in expectant silence, and, passing through

the shop, looked up and down the market-place in search of the old

lame woman, who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and who

must have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from the

lateness of her coming. Although none but the Fosters knew the cause

of their impatience for their letters, yet there was such tacit

sympathy between them and those whom they employed, that Hepburn,

Coulson, and Hester were all much relieved when the old woman at

length appeared with her basket of letters.

One of these seemed of especial consequence to the good brothers.

They each separately looked at the direction, and then at one

another; and without a word they returned with it unread into the

parlour, shutting the door, and drawing the green silk curtain

close, the better to read it in privacy.

Both Coulson and Philip felt that something unusual was going on,

and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as to the possible

contents of this London letter, as of attention to their more

immediate business. But fortunately there was little doing in the

shop. Philip, indeed, was quite idle when John Foster opened the

parlour-door, and, half doubtfully, called him into the room. As the

door of communication shut the three in, Coulson felt himself a

little aggrieved. A minute ago Philip and he were on a level of

ignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be raised.

But he soon returned to his usual state of acquiescence in things as

they were, which was partly constitutional, and partly the result of

his Quaker training.

It was apparently by John Foster's wish that Philip had been

summoned. Jeremiah, the less energetic and decided brother, was

still discussing the propriety of the step when Philip entered.

'No need for haste, John; better not call the young man till we have

further considered the matter.'

But the young man was there in presence; and John's will carried the

day.

It seemed from his account to Philip (explanatory of what he, in

advance of his brother's slower judgment, thought to be a necessary

step), that the Fosters had for some time received anonymous

letters, warning them, with distinct meaning, though in ambiguous

terms, against a certain silk-manufacturer in Spitalfields, with

whom they had had straightforward business dealings for many years;

but to whom they had latterly advanced money. The letters hinted at

the utter insolvency of this manufacturer. They had urged their

correspondent to give them his name in confidence, and this

morning's letter had brought it; but the name was totally unknown to

them, though there seemed no reason to doubt the reality of either

it or the address, the latter of which was given in full. Certain

circumstances were mentioned regarding the transactions between the

Fosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only to those

who were in the confidence of one or the other; and to the Fosters

the man was, as has been said, a perfect stranger. Probably, they

would have been unwilling to incur the risk they had done on this

manufacturer Dickinson's account, if it had not been that he

belonged to the same denomination as themselves, and was publicly

distinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character; but

these letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since this

morning's post had brought out the writer's full name, and various

particulars showing his intimate knowledge of Dickinson's affairs.

After much perplexed consultation, John had hit upon the plan of

sending Hepburn to London to make secret inquiries respecting the

true character and commercial position of the man whose creditors,

not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honour to be.

Even now Jeremiah was ashamed of their want of confidence in one so

good; he believed that the information they had received would all

prove a mistake, founded on erroneous grounds, if not a pure

invention of an enemy; and he had only been brought partially to

consent to the sending of Hepburn, by his brother's pledging himself

that the real nature of Philip's errand should be unknown to any

human creature, save them three.

As all this was being revealed to Philip, he sat apparently unmoved

and simply attentive. In fact, he was giving all his mind to

understanding the probabilities of the case, leaving his own

feelings in the background till his intellect should have done its

work. He said little; but what he did say was to the point, and

satisfied both brothers. John perceived that his messenger would

exercise penetration and act with energy; while Jeremiah was soothed

by Philip's caution in not hastily admitting the probability of any

charge against Dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previous

good conduct and good character.

Philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed on a mission

which would call out his powers, and yet not exceed them. In his own

mind he forestalled the instructions of his masters, and was

silently in advance of John Foster's plans and arrangements, while

he appeared to listen to all that was said with quiet business-like

attention.

It was settled that the next morning he was to make his way

northwards to Hartlepool, whence he could easily proceed either by

land or sea to Newcastle, from which place smacks were constantly

sailing to London. As to his personal conduct and behaviour there,

the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice; nor did

they fail to draw out of the strong box in the thick wall of their

counting-house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possible

expenses. Philip had never had so much in his hands before, and

hesitated to take it, saying it was more than he should require; but

they repeated, with fresh urgency, their warnings about the terrible

high prices of London, till he could only resolve to keep a strict

account, and bring back all that he did not expend, since nothing

but his taking the whole sum would satisfy his employers.

When he was once more behind the counter, he had leisure enough for

consideration as far as Coulson could give it him. The latter was

silent, brooding over the confidence which Philip had apparently

received, but which was withheld from him. He did not yet know of

the culminating point--of Philip's proposed journey to London; that

great city of London, which, from its very inaccessibility fifty

years ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men's

imaginations. It is not to be denied that Philip felt exultant at

the mere fact of 'going to London.' But then again, the thought of

leaving Sylvia; of going out of possible daily reach of her; of not

seeing her for a week--a fortnight; nay, he might be away for a

month,--for no rash hurry was to mar his delicate negotiation,--gnawed

at his heart, and spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipated

from gratified curiosity, or even from the consciousness of

being trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. The

sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought on

the subject; he almost wished that he had told his masters earlier

in the conversation of his unwillingness to leave Monkshaven for so

long a time; and then again he felt that the gratitude he owed them

quite prohibited his declining any task they might impose,

especially as they had more than once said that it would not do for

them to appear in the affair, and yet that to no one else could they

entrust so difficult and delicate a matter. Several times that day,

as he perceived Coulson's jealous sullenness, he thought in his

heart that the consequence of the excessive confidence for which

Coulson envied him was a burden from which he would be thankful to

be relieved.

As they all sat at tea in Alice Rose's house-place, Philip announced

his intended journey; a piece of intelligence he had not

communicated earlier to Coulson because he had rather dreaded the

increase of dissatisfaction it was sure to produce, and of which he

knew the expression would be restrained by the presence of Alice

Rose and her daughter.

'To Lunnon!' exclaimed Alice.

Hester said nothing.

'Well! some folks has the luck!' said Coulson.

'Luck!' said Alice, turning sharp round on him. 'Niver let me hear

such a vain word out o' thy mouth, laddie, again. It's the Lord's

doing, and luck's the devil's way o' putting it. Maybe it's to try

Philip he's sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; for

I've heerd tell it's full o' temptations, and he may fall into

sin--and then where'd be the "luck" on it? But why art ta going? and

the morning, say'st thou? Why, thy best shirt is in t' suds, and no

time for t' starch and iron it. Whatten the great haste as should

take thee to Lunnon wi'out thy ruffled shirt?'

'It's none o' my doing,' said Philip; 'there's business to be done,

and John Foster says I'm to do it; and I'm to start to-morrow.'

'I'll not turn thee out wi'out thy ruffled shirt, if I sit up a'

neet,' said Alice, resolutely.

'Niver fret thyself, mother, about t' shirt,' said Philip. 'If I

need a shirt, London's not what I take it for if I can't buy mysel'

one ready-made.'

'Hearken to him!' said Alice. 'He speaks as if buying o' ready-made

shirts were nought to him, and he wi' a good half-dozen as I made

mysel'. Eh, lad? but if that's the frame o' mind thou'rt in, Lunnon

is like for to be a sore place o' temptation. There's pitfalls for

men, and traps for money at ivery turn, as I've heerd say. It would

ha' been better if John Foster had sent an older man on his

business, whativer it be.'

'They seem to make a deal o' Philip all on a sudden,' said Coulson.

'He's sent for, and talked to i' privacy, while Hester and me is

left i' t' shop for t' bear t' brunt o' t' serving.'

'Philip knows,' said Hester, and then, somehow, her voice failed her

and she stopped.

Philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence; he was eager

to tell Coulson, as far as he could do so without betraying his

master's secret, how many drawbacks there were to his proposed

journey, in the responsibility which it involved, and his

unwillingness to leave Monkshaven: he said--

'Coulson, I'd give a deal it were thou that were going, and not me.

At least, there is many a time I'd give a deal. I'll not deny but at

other times I'm pleased at the thought on't. But, if I could I'd

change places wi' thee at this moment.'

'It's fine talking,' said Coulson, half mollified, and yet not

caring to show it. 'I make no doubt it were an even chance betwixt

us two at first, which on us was to go; but somehow thou got the

start and thou'st stuck to it till it's too late for aught but to

say thou's sorry.'

'Nay, William,' said Philip, rising, 'it's an ill look-out for the

future, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly wenches, o'er

each bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be pleasure, as falls

in t' way of either on us. I've said truth to thee, and played thee

fair, and I've got to go to Haytersbank for to wish 'em good-by, so

I'll not stay longer here to be misdoubted by thee.'

He took his cap and was gone, not heeding Alice's shrill inquiry as

to his clothes and his ruffled shirt. Coulson sat still, penitent

and ashamed; at length he stole a look at Hester. She was playing

with her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down her

tears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed

question.

'What's to do, Hester?' said he.

She lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they were

full of the light of indignation shining through tears.

'To do!' she said; 'Coulson, I'd thought better of thee, going and

doubting and envying Philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or said

an ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him away

out o' t' house this last night of all, may-be, wi' thy envyings and

jealousy.'

She hastily got up and left the room. Alice was away, looking up

Philip's things for his journey. Coulson remained alone, feeling

like a guilty child, but dismayed by Hester's words, even more than

by his own regret at what he had said.

Philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards Haytersbank. He was

chafed and excited by Coulson's words, and the events of the day. He

had meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, being

shaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it was

taking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of taking

advantage over Coulson, his intimate companion for years; he who

esteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man! His

feeling on the subject was akin to that of Hazael, 'Is thy servant a

dog that he should do this thing?'

His feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment off

its balance on another. The resolution he had deliberately formed of

not speaking to Sylvia on the subject of his love till he could

announce to her parents the fact of his succession to Fosters'

business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deep

affection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during the

present walk. He would speak to her of his passionate attachment,

before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certain

distance of London. And all the modification on this point which his

judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, that

he would watch her words and manner well when he announced his

approaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token of

tender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet,

not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express the

feelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. He

would be patient with her; he could not be patient himself. His

heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene,

he turned into the field-path that led to Haytersbank. Coming along

it, and so meeting him, advanced Daniel Robson, in earnest talk with

Charley Kinraid. Kinraid, then, had been at the farm: Kinraid had

been seeing Sylvia, her mother away. The thought of poor dead Annie

Coulson flashed into Philip's mind. Could he be playing the same

game with Sylvia? Philip set his teeth and tightened his lips at the

thought of it. They had stopped talking; they had seen him already,

or his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and avoid

them; even though one of his purposes in going to Haytersbank had

been to bid his uncle farewell.

Kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him,

and which Philip would fain have avoided. But the specksioneer was

full of kindliness towards all the world, especially towards all

Sylvia's friends, and, convinced of her great love towards himself,

had forgotten any previous jealousy of Philip. Secure and exultant,

his broad, handsome, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast to

Philip's long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank manner

was to the other's cold reserve. It was some minutes before Hepburn

could bring himself to tell the great event that was about to befall

him before this third person whom he considered as an intrusive

stranger. But as Kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and as

there really was no reason why he and all the world should not know

of Philip's intentions, he told his uncle that he was bound for

London the next day on business connected with the Fosters.

Daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was talking to a man

setting off for London at a day's notice.

'Thou'll niver tell me this hasn't been brewin' longer nor twelve

hours; thou's a sly close chap, and we hannot seen thee this

se'nnight; thou'll ha' been thinkin' on this, and cogitating it,

may-be, a' that time.'

'Nay,' said Philip, 'I knew nought about it last night; it's none o'

my doing, going, for I'd liefer ha' stayed where I am.'

'Yo'll like it when once yo're there,' said Kinraid, with a

travelled air of superiority, as Philip fancied.

'No, I shan't,' he replied, shortly. 'Liking has nought to do with

it.'

'Ah' yo' knew nought about it last neet,' continued Daniel,

musingly. 'Well, life's soon o'er; else when I were a young fellow,

folks made their wills afore goin' to Lunnon.'

'Yet I'll be bound to say yo' niver made a will before going to

sea,' said Philip, half smiling.

'Na, na; but that's quite another mak' o' thing; going' to sea comes

natteral to a man, but goin' to Lunnon,--I were once there, and were

near deafened wi' t' throng and t' sound. I were but two hours i' t'

place, though our ship lay a fortneet off Gravesend.'

Kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but Philip was stung with curiosity

to ascertain his movements, and suddenly addressed him:

'I heard yo' were i' these parts. Are you for staying here long?'

There was a certain abruptness in Philip's tone, if not in his

words, which made Kinraid look in his face with surprise, and answer

with equal curtness.

'I'm off i' th' morning; and sail for the north seas day after.'

He turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any

further conversation with his interrogator. Philip, indeed, had

nothing more to say to him: he had learned all he wanted to know.

'I'd like to bid good-by to Sylvie. Is she at home?' he asked of her

father.

'A'm thinking thou'll not find her. She'll be off to Yesterbarrow t'

see if she'd get a settin' o' their eggs; her grey speckled hen is

cluckin', and nought 'll serve our Sylvia but their eggs to set her

upon. But, for a' that, she mayn't be gone yet. Best go on and see

for thysel'.'

So they parted; but Philip had not gone many steps before his uncle

called him back, Kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile. Robson was

fumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case,

which he had produced out of his pocket.

'Fact is, Philip, t' pleugh's in a bad way, gearin' and a', an' folk

is talkin' on a new kind o' mak'; and if thou's bound for York---'

'I'm not going by York; I'm going by a Newcastle smack.'

'Newcassel--Newcassel--it's pretty much t' same. Here, lad, thou can

read print easy; it's a bit as was cut out on a papper; there's

Newcassel, and York, and Durham, and a vast more towns named, wheere

folk can learn a' about t' new mak' o' pleugh.'

'I see,' said Philip: '"Robinson, Side, Newcastle, can give all

requisite information."'

'Ay, ay,' said Robson; 'thou's hit t' marrow on t' matter. Now, if

thou'rt i' Newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou'rt little

better nor a woman, for sure, bein' mainly acquaint wi' ribbons, but

they'll tell thee--they'll tell thee, lad; and write down what they

sayn, and what's to be t' price, and look sharp as to what kind o'

folk they are as sells 'em, an' write and let me know. Thou'll be i'

Newcassel to-morrow, may-be? Well, then, I'll reckon to hear fro'

thee in a week, or, mayhap, less,--for t' land is backward, and I'd

like to know about t' pleughs. I'd a month's mind to write to

Brunton, as married Molly Corney, but writin' is more i' thy way an'

t' parson's nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, Brunton sells

cheese, and that's no better.'

Philip promised to do his best, and to write word to Robson, who,

satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade him

go on and see if he could not find the lass. Her father was right in

saying that she might not have set out for Yesterbarrow. She had

talked about it to Kinraid and her father in order to cover her

regret at her lover's accompanying her father to see some new kind

of harpoon about which the latter had spoken. But as soon as they

had left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow in

the field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her great

happiness in being beloved by her hero, Charley Kinraid. No gloomy

dread of his long summer's absence; no fear of the cold, glittering

icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the _Urania_, nor shuddering

anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind. He

loved her, and that was enough. Her eyes looked, trance-like, into a

dim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened by

his kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startled

by the sound of an approaching footstep--a footstep quite familiar

enough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, as

disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone

she cared to indulge.

'Well, Philip! an' what brings _yo'_ here?' was her rather

ungracious greeting.

'Why, Sylvie, are yo' sorry to see me?' asked Philip, reproachfully.

But she turned it off with assumed lightness.

'Oh, yes,' said she. 'I've been wanting yo' this week past wi' t'

match to my blue ribbon yo' said yo'd get and bring me next time yo'

came.'

'I've forgotten it, Sylvie. It's clean gone out of my mind,' said

Philip, with true regret. 'But I've had a deal to think on,' he

continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. Sylvia did not

want his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by his

earnestness of manner--but he knew nothing of all that; he only knew

that she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and he

had neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went on

with the apology she cared not to hear.

If she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossed

with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest,

for his carelessness. As it was, she scarcely took in the sense of

his words.

'You see, Sylvie, I've had a deal to think on; before long I intend

telling yo' all about it; just now I'm not free to do it. And when a

man's mind is full o' business, most particular when it's other

folk's as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the very

things he'd most care for at another time.' He paused a little.

Sylvia's galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence;

she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think of

nothing besides an ambiguous--

'Well?'

'And I'm off to London i' t' morning,' added he, a little wistfully,

almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at a

journey, the very destination of which showed that he would be

absent for some time.

'To Lunnon!' said she, with some surprise. 'Yo're niver thinking o'

going to live theere, for sure!'

Surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as Philip's

instinct told him. But he reasoned that first correct impression

away with ingenious sophistry.

'Not to live there: only to stay for some time. I shall be back, I

reckon, in a month or so.'

'Oh! that's nought of a going away,' said she, rather petulantly.

'Them as goes to t' Greenland seas has to bide away for six months

and more,' and she sighed.

Suddenly a light shone down into Philip's mind. His voice was

changed as he spoke next.

'I met that good-for-nothing chap, Kinraid, wi' yo'r father just

now. He'll ha' been here, Sylvie?'

She stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as a

rose.

'To be sure; what then?' And she eyed him defiantly, though in her

heart she trembled, she knew not why.

'What then? and yo'r mother away. He's no company for such as thee,

at no time, Sylvie.'

'Feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave

o' yo',' said Sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little

wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it

away. At the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any

meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the

contents thus turned over before the box was locked.

'But thy mother wouldn't like it, Sylvie; he's played false wi'

other lasses, he'll be playing thee false some o' these days, if

thou lets him come about thee. He went on wi' Annie Coulson,

William's sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he's been on

wi' others.'

'I dunnot believe a word on 't,' said Sylvia, standing up, all

aflame.

'I niver telled a lie i' my life,' said Philip, almost choking with

grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she

betrayed. 'It were Willie Coulson as telled me, as solemn and

serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren't the

first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young

women.'

'And how dare yo' come here to me wi' yo'r backbiting tales?' said

Sylvia, shivering all over with passion.

Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain.

'It were yo'r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo' had no brother, or

any one to see after yo'; and yo' so pretty, so pretty, Sylvia,' he

continued, shaking his head, sadly, 'that men run after yo' against

their will, as one may say; and yo'r mother bade me watch o'er ye

and see what company yo' kept, and who was following after yo', and

to warn yo', if need were.'

'My mother niver bade yo' to come spying after me, and blaming me

for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. An' I don't believe a

word about Annie Coulson; an' I'm not going to suffer yo' to come

wi' yo'r tales to me; say 'em out to his face, and hear what he'll

say to yo'.'

'Sylvie, Sylvie,' cried poor Philip, as his offended cousin rushed

past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the

sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. He could hear her

feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. He sate

still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. He sate till it

grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful

hands, died out into gray ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work and

gone home. There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew he

ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements

to make. Yet it seemed as though he could not stir. At length he

raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. Up the little wooden

stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square

landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He

breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia's

room.

'Sylvie! I'm going away; say good-by.' No answer. Not a sound heard.

'Sylvie!' (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). There was no

reply. 'Sylvie! I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may niver

come back at all'; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death.

'Say good-by.' No answer. He waited patiently. Can she be wearied

out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet once again--'Good-by,

Sylvie, and God bless yo'! I'm sorry I vexed yo'.'

No reply.

With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his

cap, and left the house.

'She's warned, any way,' thought he. Just at that moment the little

casement window of Sylvia's room was opened, and she said--

'Good-by, Philip!'

The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. Philip

knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and

yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his

will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. Those two

words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath

his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach

or blame.

'She's but a young lassie,' said he to himself; 'an' Kinraid has

been playing wi' her, as such as he can't help doing, once they get

among the women. An' I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson,

and touched her pride. Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her

how her mother was feared for her. I couldn't ha' left the place

to-morrow if he'd been biding here; but he's off for half a year or

so, and I'll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a year

such as he forgets, if iver he's thought serious about her; but in

a' my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget. God

bless her for saying, "Good-by, Philip."' He repeated the words

aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: 'Good-by, Philip.'

CHAPTER XVIII

EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT

The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning

did. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever

storms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tasted

the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as

his employment at the shop detained him in Monkshaven till the

evening. And as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north

side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze

blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and

elastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared

for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take him

to Newcastle before night. For seven or eight miles the level sands

were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down

land-ways. Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying

the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing

almost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back

over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To his left

were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here

and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and

then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet

greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean

before him. The loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing and

receding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look of

everything tinged his day-dreams with hope. So he trudged merrily

over the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace on

the hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he had

left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the

sea-pools near Monkshaven. The cares of land were shut out by the

glorious barrier of rocks before him. There were some great masses

that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half

embedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendent

olive-green seaweed. The waves were nearer at this point; the

advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here and

there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks

into white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the German

Ocean upon that English shore with a long steady roll that might

have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of the

sea-serpent on the coast of 'Norroway over the foam.' The air was

soft as May; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into

gray near the sea lines. Flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge

of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage to

glimmer in the sunlight as Philip approached. The whole scene was so

peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too

well founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during the

dark hours of the past night.

There was Haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance among

the warm brown bases of the cliffs. Below, in the sheltered

brushwood, among the last year's withered leaves, some primroses

might be found. He half thought of gathering Sylvia a posy of them,

and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering.

But on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action

out of his head; it was above an hour later than he had supposed,

and he must make all haste on to Hartlepool. Just as he was

approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out some

way upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turned

to the left and took the direction of Hartlepool a hundred yards or

so in advance of Philip. He never stayed to look round him, but went

swiftly and steadily on his way. By the peculiar lurch in his

walk--by everything--Philip knew it was the specksioneer, Kinraid.

Now the road up Haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else.

Still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first

going up to the Robsons' house, and skirting the walls till they

came to the little slender path down to the shore. But by the farm,

by the very house-door they must of necessity pass. Philip slackened

his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. By-and-by Kinraid,

walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long and

earnestly towards Haytersbank gully. Hepburn paused when he paused,

but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently did

Hepburn look at him. No need to ascertain by sight towards whom his

looks, his thoughts were directed. He took off his hat and waved it,

touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. When he

turned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet more

into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. Each step was now a heavy

task, his sad heart tired and weary. After a while he climbed up a

few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the

stones and rocks around. Stumbling over the uneven and often jagged

points, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools of

water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kept

his eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kinraid, and made his way

almost alongside of him. But the last hour had pinched Hepburn's

features into something of the wan haggardness they would wear when

he should first be lying still for ever.

And now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight miles

from Monkshaven. The creek was formed by a beck (or small stream)

that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the sea

between the widening rocks. The melting of the snows and running of

the flooded water-springs above made this beck in the early

spring-time both deep and wide. Hepburn knew that here they both

must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about a

quarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing to

the jutting out of the rocks, the land path was the shortest; and

this way lay by the water-side at an angle right below the cliff to

which Hepburn's steps were leading him. He knew that on this long

level field path he might easily be seen by any one following; nay,

if he followed any one at a short distance, for it was full of

turnings; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a while

till Kinraid was far enough in advance for him to escape being seen.

He came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed;

seven or eight feet above the stream he stood, and looked cautiously

for the specksioneer. Up by the rushing stream he looked, then right

below.

'It is God's providence,' he murmured. 'It is God's providence.'

He crouched down where he had been standing and covered his face

with his hands. He tried to deafen as well as to blind himself, that

he might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of which

he, an inhabitant of Monkshaven at that day, well understood the

betokening signs.

Kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning up

towards the bridge. He came along now nearing the rocks. By this

time he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. It steeled

Philip's heart to what was coming to hear his rival whistling, 'Weel

may the keel row,' so soon after parting with Sylvia.

The instant Kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush was

upon him. Four man-of-war's men sprang on him and strove to pinion

him.

'In the King's name!' cried they, with rough, triumphant jeers.

Their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they were sent by the

tender of a frigate lying off Hartlepool for fresh water. The tender

was at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face.

They knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and from

their nets by the side of the creek; but such a prize as this

active, strong, and evidently superior sailor, was what they had not

hoped for, and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion to

the value of the prize.

Although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, Kinraid did not

lose his wits. He wrenched himself free, crying out loud:

'Avast, I'm a protected whaler. I claim my protection. I've my

papers to show, I'm bonded specksioneer to the _Urania_ whaler,

Donkin captain, North Shields port.'

As a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th section of

Act 26 Geo. III. no legal right to seize him, unless he had failed

to return to his ship by the 10th March following the date of his

bond. But of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of his

breast; of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse with

such as were powerful enough to protect, and in the time of popular

panic against a French invasion?

'D--n your protection,' cried the leader of the press-gang; 'come

and serve his Majesty, that's better than catching whales.'

'Is it though?' said the specksioneer, with a motion of his hand,

which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw and interpreted

rightly.

'Thou wilt, wilt thou? Close with him, Jack; and ware the cutlass.'

In a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became a

hand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the difference in numbers, it

was not difficult to foretell the result. Yet Kinraid made desperate

efforts to free himself; he wasted no breath in words, but fought,

as the men said, 'like a very devil.'

Hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggle

of limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought to

have managed their affair more easily; the sudden cry of some one

wounded, not Kinraid he knew, Kinraid would have borne any pain in

silence at such a moment; another wrestling, swearing, infuriated

strife, and then a strange silence. Hepburn sickened at the heart;

was then his rival dead? had he left this bright world? lost his

life--his love? For an instant Hepburn felt guilty of his death; he

said to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in the

struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever.

Philip could not bear the suspense; he looked stealthily round the

corner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw that

they had overpowered Kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, were

binding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat.

Kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog: he rolled when they pushed

him; he suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, any

motion; the strong colour brought into his face while fighting was

gone now, his countenance was livid pale; his lips were tightly held

together, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden, and

stiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with all

his might. His eyes seemed the only part about him that showed

cognizance of what was going on. They were watchful, vivid, fierce

as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperate

quickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in all

probability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in its

supreme agony.

Without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking in

everything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. A sailor

sat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. The man held

his head in his hand, moaning; but every now and then he revenged

himself by a kick at the prostrate specksioneer, till even his

comrades stopped their cursing and swearing at their prisoner for

the trouble he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. But

Kinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot.

One of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory,

ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his vehement and

hopeless resistance.

He might have said yet more insolent things; the kicks might have

hit harder; Kinraid did not hear or heed. His soul was beating

itself against the bars of inflexible circumstance; reviewing in one

terrible instant of time what had been, what might have been, what

was. Yet while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still

mechanically looking out for chances. He moved his head a little, so

as to turn towards Haytersbank, where Sylvia must be quickly, if

sadly, going about her simple daily work; and then his quick eye

caught Hepburn's face, blanched with excitement rather than fear,

watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathless

during the affray and the impressment of his rival.

'Come here, lad!' shouted the specksioneer as soon as he saw Philip,

heaving and writhing his body the while with so much vigour that the

sailors started away from the work they were engaged in about the

boat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break the

strong rope that held him like withes of green flax. But the bound

man had no such notion in his head. His mighty wish was to call

Hepburn near that he might send some message by him to Sylvia. 'Come

here, Hepburn,' he cried again, falling back this time so weak and

exhausted that the man-of-war's men became sympathetic.

'Come down, peeping Tom, and don't be afeared,' they called out.

'I'm not afeared,' said Philip; 'I'm no sailor for yo' t' impress

me: nor have yo' any right to take that fellow; he's a Greenland

specksioneer, under protection, as I know and can testify.'

'Yo' and yo'r testify go hang. Make haste, man and hear what this

gem'man, as was in a dirty blubbery whale-ship, and is now in his

Majesty's service, has got to say. I dare say, Jack,' went on the

speaker, 'it's some message to his sweetheart, asking her to come

for to serve on board ship along with he, like Billy Taylor's young

woman.'

Philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity,

but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do or

to say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now he

could not help admiring.

Kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to move with

quick decision, so slow and dilatory.

'Come on then,' cried the sailors, 'or we'll take you too on board,

and run you up and down the main-mast a few times. Nothing like life

aboard ship for quickening a land-lubber.'

'Yo'd better take him and leave me,' said Kinraid, grimly. 'I've

been taught my lesson; and seemingly he has his yet to learn.'

'His Majesty isn't a schoolmaster to need scholars; but a jolly good

captain to need men,' replied the leader of the gang, eyeing Philip

nevertheless, and questioning within himself how far, with only two

other available men, they durst venture on his capture as well as

the specksioneer's. It might be done, he thought, even though there

was this powerful captive aboard, and the boat to manage too; but,

running his eye over Philip's figure, he decided that the tall

stooping fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he should

get small thanks if he captured him, to pay him for the possible

risk of losing the other. Or else the mere fact of being a landsman

was of as little consequence to the press-gang, as the protecting

papers which Kinraid had vainly showed.

'Yon fellow wouldn't have been worth his grog this many a day, and

be d--d to you,' said he, catching Hepburn by the shoulder, and

giving him a push. Philip stumbled over something in this, his

forced run. He looked down; his foot had caught in Kinraid's hat,

which had dropped off in the previous struggle. In the band that

went round the low crown, a ribbon was knotted; a piece of that same

ribbon which Philip had chosen out, with such tender hope, to give

to Sylvia for the Corneys' party on new year's eve. He knew every

delicate thread that made up the briar-rose pattern; and a spasm of

hatred towards Kinraid contracted his heart. He had been almost

relenting into pity for the man captured before his eyes; now he

abhorred him.

Kinraid did not speak for a minute or two. The sailors, who had

begun to take him into favour, were all agog with curiosity to hear

the message to his sweetheart, which they believed he was going to

send. Hepburn's perceptions, quickened with his vehement agitation

of soul, were aware of this feeling of theirs; and it increased his

rage against Kinraid, who had exposed the idea of Sylvia to be the

subject of ribald whispers. But the specksioneer cared little what

others said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw before his

closed eyelids as she stood watching him, from the Haytersbank

gully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in one passionate

farewell.

'What do yo' want wi' me?' asked Hepburn at last in a gloomy tone.

If he could have helped it, he would have kept silence till Kinraid

spoke first; but he could no longer endure the sailors' nudges, and

winks, and jests among themselves.

'Tell Sylvia,' said Kinraid----

'There's a smart name for a sweetheart,' exclaimed one of the men;

but Kinraid went straight on,--

'What yo've seen; how I've been pressed by this cursed gang.'

'Civil words, messmate, if you please. Sylvia can't abide cursing

and swearing, I'm sure. We're gentlemen serving his Majesty on board

the _Alcestis_, and this proper young fellow shall be helped on to

more honour and glory than he'd ever get bobbing for whales. Tell

Sylvia this, with my love; Jack Carter's love, if she's anxious

about my name.'

One of the sailors laughed at this rude humour; another bade Carter

hold his stupid tongue. Philip hated him in his heart. Kinraid

hardly heard him. He was growing faint with the heavy blows he had

received, the stunning fall he had met with, and the reaction from

his dogged self-control at first.

Philip did not speak nor move.

'Tell her,' continued Kinraid, rousing himself for another effort,

'what yo've seen. Tell her I'll come back to her. Bid her not forget

the great oath we took together this morning; she's as much my wife

as if we'd gone to church;--I'll come back and marry her afore

long.'

Philip said something inarticulately.

'Hurra!' cried Carter, 'and I'll be best man. Tell her, too that

I'll have an eye on her sweetheart, and keep him from running after

other girls.'

'Yo'll have yo'r hands full, then,' muttered Philip, his passion

boiling over at the thought of having been chosen out from among all

men to convey such a message as Kinraid's to Sylvia.

'Make an end of yo'r d--d yarns, and be off,' said the man who had

been hurt by Kinraid, and who had sate apart and silent till now.

Philip turned away; Kinraid raised himself and cried after him,--

'Hepburn, Hepburn! tell her---' what he added Philip could not hear,

for the words were lost before they reached him in the outward noise

of the regular splash of the oars and the rush of the wind down the

gully, with which mingled the closer sound that filled his ears of

his own hurrying blood surging up into his brain. He was conscious

that he had said something in reply to Kinraid's adjuration that he

would deliver his message to Sylvia, at the very time when Carter

had stung him into fresh anger by the allusion to the possibility of

the specksioneer's 'running after other girls,' for, for an instant,

Hepburn had been touched by the contrast of circumstances. Kinraid

an hour or two ago,--Kinraid a banished man; for in those days, an

impressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign station, far

from those he loved, who all this time remained ignorant of his

cruel fate.

But Hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said--how much of a

promise he had made to deliver those last passionate words of

Kinraid's. He could not recollect how much, how little he had said;

he knew he had spoken hoarsely and low almost at the same time as

Carter had uttered his loud joke. But he doubted if Kinraid had

caught his words.

And then the dread Inner Creature, who lurks in each of our hearts,

arose and said, 'It is as well: a promise given is a fetter to the

giver. But a promise is not given when it has not been received.'

At a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore when he had

crossed the bridge, and almost ran towards the verge of the land.

Then he threw himself down on the soft fine turf that grew on the

margin of the cliffs overhanging the sea, and commanding an extent

of view towards the north. His face supported by his hands, he

looked down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there,

into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. The boat was still in

the distance, making her swift silent way with long regular bounds

to the tender that lay in the offing.

Hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long as the boat

did not reach her immediate destination. His contracted eyes could

see four minute figures rowing with ceaseless motion, and a fifth

sate at the helm. But he knew there was a sixth, unseen, lying,

bound and helpless, at the bottom of the boat; and his fancy kept

expecting this man to start up and break his bonds, and overcome all

the others, and return to the shore free and triumphant.

It was by no fault of Hepburn's that the boat sped well away; that

she was now alongside the tender, dancing on the waves; now emptied

of her crew; now hoisted up to her place. No fault of his! and yet

it took him some time before he could reason himself into the belief

that his mad, feverish wishes not an hour before--his wild prayer to

be rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over the

rocks alongside of Kinraid's path on the sands--had not compelled

the event.

'Anyhow,' thought he, as he rose up, 'my prayer is granted. God be

thanked!'

Once more he looked out towards the ship. She had spread her

beautiful great sails, and was standing out to sea in the glittering

path of the descending sun.

He saw that he had been delayed on his road, and had lingered long.

He shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his knapsack, and prepared

to walk on to Hartlepool as swiftly as he could.

CHAPTER XIX

AN IMPORTANT MISSION

Philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by, but there

was another that left at night, and which reached Newcastle in the

forenoon, so that, by the loss of a night's sleep, he might overtake

his lost time. But, restless and miserable, he could not stop in

Hartlepool longer than to get some hasty food at the inn from which

the coach started. He acquainted himself with the names of the towns

through which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop,

and left word that the coachman was to be on the look-out for him

and pick him up at some one of these places.

He was thoroughly worn out before this happened--too much tired to

gain any sleep in the coach. When he reached Newcastle, he went to

engage his passage in the next London-bound smack, and then directed

his steps to Robinson's, in the Side, to make all the inquiries he

could think of respecting the plough his uncle wanted to know about.

So it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost evening,

before he arrived at the small inn on the quay-side, where he

intended to sleep. It was but a rough kind of place, frequented

principally by sailors; he had been recommended to it by Daniel

Robson, who had known it well in former days. The accommodation in

it was, however, clean and homely, and the people keeping it were

respectable enough in their way.

Still Hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of the sailors

who sate drinking in the bar, and he asked, in a low voice, if there

was not another room. The woman stared in surprise, and only shook

her head. Hepburn went to a separate table, away from the roaring

fire, which on this cold March evening was the great attraction, and

called for food and drink. Then seeing that the other men were

eyeing him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked for

pen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their purpose

by pre-occupation on his part. But when the paper came, the new pen,

the unused thickened ink, he hesitated long before he began to

write; and at last he slowly put down the words,--

'DEAR AND HONOURED UNCLE,'----

There was a pause; his meal was brought and hastily swallowed. Even

while he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the letters

of these words. When he had drunk a glass of ale he began again to

write: fluently this time, for he was giving an account of the

plough. Then came another long stop; he was weighing in his own mind

what he should say about Kinraid. Once he thought for a second of

writing to Sylvia herself, and telling her---how much? She might

treasure up her lover's words like grains of gold, while they were

lighter than dust in their meaning to Philip's mind; words which

such as the specksioneer used as counters to beguile and lead astray

silly women. It was for him to prove his constancy by action; and

the chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in Philip's

estimation. But should the latter mention the bare fact of Kinraid's

impressment to Robson? That would have been the natural course of

things, remembering that the last time Philip had seen either, they

were in each other's company. Twenty times he put his pen to the

paper with the intention of relating briefly the event that had

befallen Kinraid; and as often he stopped, as though the first word

would be irrevocable. While he thus sate pen in hand, thinking

himself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next step

which she bade him take into an indefinite future, he caught some

fragments of the sailors' talk at the other end of the room, which

made him listen to their words. They were speaking of that very

Kinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actual

presence. In a rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer,

with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner; and

from that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongst

women, and one or two girls' names were spoken of in connection with

him. Hepburn silently added Annie Coulson and Sylvia Robson to this

list, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so. Long after they had

done speaking about Kinraid, after they had paid their shot, and

gone away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts.

The people of the house prepared for bed. Their silent guest took no

heed of their mute signs. At length the landlord spoke to him, and

he started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and prepared

to retire with the rest. But before he did so, he signed and

directed the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, in

case some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a postscript. The

landlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest had

been writing must be posted early the next morning if it was going

south; as the mails in that direction only left Newcastle every

other day.

All night long Hepburn wearied himself with passionate tossings,

prompted by stinging recollection. Towards morning he fell into a

dead sound sleep. He was roused by a hasty knocking at the door. It

was broad full daylight; he had overslept himself, and the smack was

leaving by the early tide. He was even now summoned on board. He

dressed, wafered his letter, and rushed with it to the neighbouring

post-office; and, without caring to touch the breakfast for which he

paid, he embarked. Once on board, he experienced the relief which it

always is to an undecided man, and generally is at first to any one

who has been paltering with duty, when circumstances decide for him.

In the first case, it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden of

decision; in the second, the responsibility seems to be shifted on

to impersonal events.

And so Philip sailed out of the mouth of the Tyne on to the great

open sea. It would be a week before the smack reached London, even

if she pursued a tolerably straight course, but she had to keep a

sharp look-out after possible impressment of her crew; and it was

not until after many dodges and some adventures that, at the end of

a fortnight from the time of his leaving Monkshaven, Philip found

himself safely housed in London, and ready to begin the delicate

piece of work which was given him to do.

He felt himself fully capable of unravelling each clue to

information, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so gained.

But during the leisure of the voyage he had wisely determined to

communicate everything he learnt about Dickinson, in short, every

step he took in the matter, by letter to his employers. And thus his

mind both in and out of his lodgings might have appeared to have

been fully occupied with the concerns of others.

But there were times when the miserable luxury of dwelling upon his

own affairs was his--when he lay down in his bed till he fell into

restless sleep--when the point to which his steps tended in his

walks was ascertained. Then he gave himself up to memory, and regret

which often deepened into despair, and but seldom was cheered by

hope.

He grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was kept--for in

those days of heavy postage any correspondence he might have had on

mere Monkshaven intelligence was very limited--as to the affairs at

Haytersbank, that he cut out an advertisement respecting some new

kind of plough, from a newspaper that lay in the chop-house where he

usually dined, and rising early the next morning he employed the

time thus gained in going round to the shop where these new ploughs

were sold.

That night he wrote another letter to Daniel Robson, with a long

account of the merits of the implements he had that day seen. With a

sick heart and a hesitating hand, he wound up with a message of

regard to his aunt and to Sylvia; an expression of regard which he

dared not make as warm as he wished, and which, consequently, fell

below the usual mark attained by such messages, and would have

appeared to any one who cared to think about it as cold and formal.

When this letter was despatched, Hepburn began to wonder what he had

hoped for in writing it. He knew that Daniel could write--or rather

that he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of which

puzzled others and often himself; but these pen-and-ink signs were

seldom employed by Robson, and never, so far as Philip knew, for the

purpose of letter-writing. But still he craved so for news of

Sylvia--even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhaps

touched--that he thought all his trouble about the plough (to say

nothing of the one-and-twopence postage which he had prepaid in

order to make sure of his letter's reception in the frugal household

at Haytersbank) well lost for the mere chance of his uncle's caring

enough for the intelligence to write in reply, or even to get some

friend to write an answer; for in such case, perhaps, Philip might

see her name mentioned in some way, even though it was only that she

sent her duty to him.

But the post-office was dumb; no letter came from Daniel Robson.

Philip heard, it is true, from his employers pretty frequently on

business; and he felt sure they would have named it, if any ill had

befallen his uncle's family, for they knew of the relationship and

of his intimacy there. They generally ended their formal letters

with as formal a summary of Monkshaven news; but there was never a

mention of the Robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did not

soothe Philip's impatient curiosity. He had never confided his

attachment to his cousin to any one, it was not his way; but he

sometimes thought that if Coulson had not taken his present

appointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he would

have written to him and asked him to go up to Haytersbank Farm, and

let him know how they all were.

All this time he was transacting the affair on which he had been

sent, with great skill; and, indeed, in several ways, he was quietly

laying the foundation for enlarging the business in Monkshaven.

Naturally grave and quiet, and slow to speak, he impressed those who

saw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he really

possessed. Indeed, those who encountered him in London, thought he

was absorbed in the business of money-making. Yet before the time

came when he could wind up affairs and return to Monkshaven, he

would have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle,

telling him something about Sylvia. For he still hoped to hear from

Robson, although he knew that he hoped against reason. But we often

convince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need never

have been expected; and then, at the end of our reasoning, find that

we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes are

untouched, and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever.

Hepburn's baulked hope was the Mordecai sitting in Haman's gate; all

his success in his errand to London, his well-doing in worldly

affairs, was tasteless, and gave him no pleasure, because of this

blank and void of all intelligence concerning Sylvia.

And yet he came back with a letter from the Fosters in his pocket,

curt, yet expressive of deep gratitude for his discreet services in

London; and at another time--in fact, if Philip's life had been

ordered differently to what it was--it might have given this man a

not unworthy pleasure to remember that, without a penny of his own,

simply by diligence, honesty, and faithful quick-sightedness as to

the interests of his masters, he had risen to hold the promise of

being their successor, and to be ranked by them as a trusted friend.

As the Newcastle smack neared the shore on her voyage home, Hepburn

looked wistfully out for the faint gray outline of Monkshaven Priory

against the sky, and the well-known cliffs; as if the masses of

inanimate stone could tell him any news of Sylvia.

In the streets of Shields, just after landing, he encountered a

neighbour of the Robsons, and an acquaintance of his own. By this

honest man, he was welcomed as a great traveller is welcomed on his

return from a long voyage, with many hearty good shakes of the hand,

much repetition of kind wishes, and offers to treat him to drink.

Yet, from some insurmountable feeling, Philip avoided all mention of

the family who were the principal bond between the honest farmer and

himself. He did not know why, but he could not bear the shock of

first hearing her name in the open street, or in the rough

public-house. And thus he shrank from the intelligence he craved to

hear.

Thus he knew no more about the Robsons when he returned to

Monkshaven, than he had done on the day when he had last seen them;

and, of course, his first task there was to give a long _viva voce_

account of all his London proceedings to the two brothers Foster,

who, considering that they had heard the result of everything by

letter, seemed to take an insatiable interest in details.

He could hardly tell why, but even when released from the Fosters'

parlour, he was unwilling to go to Haytersbank Farm. It was late, it

is true, but on a May evening even country people keep up till eight

or nine o'clock. Perhaps it was because Hepburn was still in his

travel-stained dress; having gone straight to the shop on his

arrival in Monkshaven. Perhaps it was because, if he went this night

for the short half-hour intervening before bed-time, he would have

no excuse for paying a longer visit on the following evening. At any

rate, he proceeded straight to Alice Rose's, as soon as he had

finished his interview with his employers.

Both Hester and Coulson had given him their welcome home in the

shop, which they had, however, left an hour or two before him.

Yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise was

blended, when he came to his lodgings. Even Alice seemed gratified

by his spending this first evening with them, as if she had thought

it might have been otherwise. Weary though he was, he exerted

himself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in London,

as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers.

It was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors,

although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to produce

the expression of it which gratified him. Coulson was sorry for his

former ungenerous reception of the news that Philip was going to

London; Hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if this

evening was like more happy evenings of old, before the Robsons came

to Haytersbank Farm; and who knows what faint delicious hopes this

resemblance may not have suggested?

While Philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep,

was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene before

to-morrow night, at times, he tried to make them talk of what had

happened in Monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in an

eventless manner, as far as he could gather; if they knew of

anything affecting the Robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him;

and, indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard their

names while he was away?